


Codex: Her Worship

by queenbaskerville



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-01 19:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenbaskerville/pseuds/queenbaskerville
Summary: Lavellan is going to do whatever it takes to save the people of Thedas from the Corypheus, the rifts, and gods knows what else. Sometimes the people of Thedas want to save her just a little bit, too.





	1. Way of the Head Cook

**Author's Note:**

> Codex entries for my inquisitor inspired by prompts I've seen on tumblr. Her first name is rarely mentioned, so it's easy to read as your own inquisitor, if you'd like to do so. 
> 
> Some background on her, if you'd like: Aviv Lavellan is a Dalish rogue trained as a hunter, a spy, and a bodyguard (for her wife, Ed, First to the Keeper) by Clan Lavellan. Aviv is not her true first name; it's a false name she takes on for the spy mission. Nearly all of her clan perishes during the failed "Save Clan Lavellan" mission— she believes her wife dies, too— and she lets her name die with them. She blames herself for their decimation. Sides with the mages, puts Gerard on the throne with Briala controlling his every move, wants to give Dirthavaren back to the Dalish, will stop Solas no matter what. Romanced Josephine. All companions stayed. Didn't leave Hawke in the fade.

_There's a dry brown parchment nailed to a wall in the Skyhold kitchens. One would think that because the kitchens are so large, a piece of parchment might go unnoticed, but the Head Cook's Second has read the note aloud to the entire staff a few times in the past two days, trying to make sure everyone who can't read has at least heard it. The following is written, in tight, shaky letters:_

Just because I'm ill doesn't mean things should go to shambles in my absence. Our lady Herald should not even notice a hiccup in the kitchen's activities! You all know how to conduct yourselves, you've proven that. A few notes as a reminder:

  1. Her Worship dislikes milk and won't want much in any food she eats. If you know it's food for her, and you should know, avoid using milk as an ingredient. A little would be okay if perhaps she was some mere lady, but she's the Herald of Andraste and I expect you to keep milk out of her food! I don't care if she accepts your apology and smiles at you! Don't do it!
  2. Someone make sure the server on rotation for Her Worship's meals or banquets has a pitcher of cider, not ale or brew of any sort. She won't consume spirits or wine either. Cider or water only unless otherwise requested. So much as a twitch of distaste on her face and I _will_ know, and I _will_ rise from my sickbed to chuck your sorry arse off the battlements!
  3. For the love of Andraste, don't ask about the larvae.
  4. Her Worship will insist that the finest of the meal ingredients be prepared in her guest's food instead of her own, if she dines with one. Only listen to her if that guest is Lady Josephine Montilyet.
  5. If the Lady Montilyet requests breakfast in bed for the two of them, Her Worship will typically be abashed and tell whatever server brings it up that they didn't have to go to all that trouble just for her. She tells Lady Montilyet this as well. Do not listen to her. Go to all the trouble. I don't care if it takes accursed blood magic to prepare it— get it done!
  6. For those of you who are new— she has never once thrown a goblet or plate or any such thing at a servant, not once. Not even you elvish lot— the rumors are true; she herself is an elf. You're going to be just fine. 



However, don't forget no matter what race you are, _I_ will throttle you if you so much as spoil the air Her Worship breathes. 

I'll be well again soon. Hop to it.


	2. Selling Over Buying

_A letter written in smooth, unwavering black ink on sturdy parchment ornamented with purple lines and whorls at the corners is lifted from a rubbish bin by a servant in Orlais, along with several crumpled rough drafts of what appears to be a reply. The letter reads as follows._

My dear husband,

I miss you with utmost fondness. But I'll skip all that affectionate mucking about and get to what you would truly like to know of— my interactions with the (in)famous Herald of Andraste.

This week I am the envy of all of the other shopkeepers in Skyhold. Her Worship deigned to make a stop by my stall today and sell off the valuables she collected on her travels to the Exalted Plains, having gone there to seal rifts, I'm sure. Not as many elvehn artifacts as I'd hoped for (meaning I received none), but who knows if they'd have been worth anything anyway. _But did she buy anything?_ you may ask. The answer is no— but I don't think I've ever seen her buy anything from any shopkeeper here. I'm not saying this to imply that I lack business. Numerous Skyhold residents of all sorts frequent my stall every minute, and some of the Inquisitor's traveling companions buy things from my stall now and then. Madame Vivienne de Fer herself looked me in the eyes yesterday. I swear by the Maker I saw the corner of her lips turn up. What I am getting at, my dear, is that I am doing quite well. I lack for nothing but your sweet form beside me, as you'll be able to tell from the sum of money I am sending back to you.

I mean what I say, though. The Inquisitor never buys anything. I've even heard rumors that she will go beneath Skyhold and forge her own weapons. Whether or not that's true is unimportant— because the Inquisitor buys from no one, it's the one to whom she _sells_ things who is important and famed for the day. The moment she steps in front of my humble table is the moment I know the other shopkeepers are sick with envy, frothing at the mouths with rage, languishing in the shame of not being chosen. It's quite amusing.

Less amusing when she stops by another shopkeeper than myself, of course, but that's neither here nor there— I had the luck of arriving early and securing a spot by the stone staircase to the front of a significant entrance to the inner wings of the castle, meaning she approaches my table often. When you join me, perhaps I can introduce the two of you. I have never seen her forget a face. I don't know how she can possibly remember so many people. 

Write to me about your nieces. I'm sure their sword training gives you terrible headaches.

With love, 

Markus


	3. Pocket Note

 Cole thinks he only gets away with picking his new friends' pockets because he can make their eyes skip over him. The fade-studied man is the most difficult— Solas, the one whose jaw works when he's angry and whose jaw stays locked in his mouth and whose jaw hangs from his neck. Who has a wolf's jaw. Not his own. Cole realized in Haven that Solas was just pretending to forget him, playing along with everyone else like a man who plays Wicked Grace but doesn't believe in it. Cole tugs at a few different threads, green and grey, and Solas starts to forget Cole instead of just pretending to forget.

It's the Inquisitor whose pocket he picks now, just because he can. He usually puts whatever he finds back where it belongs. When he remembers. It's hard, sometimes, to take all the cries for help and translate them into action. Sometimes a cry for help is not really for help, it's just a cry, a release of a dam, not a wish for a sealant. Inquisitor Lavellan told him once that he should ask Varric about catharsis. Something about books, she'd said. Or plays, perhaps. Now Cole is the one with the clouded memory. Perhaps he will ask. Varric is nice to him, treats him like a nephew. Not like a son— sons are mages with bad blood, sons get beaten, sons use knives when the pushing is too strong. Nephew sounds better to Cole. A nephew gets a smile from Varric, gets told _it's good to see you,_ gets told _you'd be a funky character to write about, kid,_ in a way that sounds like it's a compliment.

Cole has a piece of parchment in his hands. He watches Lavellan head toward the training grounds where her assassin specialist waits to give her another training lesson. Her pockets are just a bit lighter now that Cole has this parchment. Her heart is not lighter than it was before he breezed by her. It is not heavier either, though, so at least he hasn't made anything worse. He unfolds the parchment, his fingers smoothing the creases out.

_If you're reading this, you're Cole. Do tell me if I'm right about my theory, would you? I'd meant to gift you a dagger last week and I lost it— but really I "lost" it, didn't I? And the herb request list I was taking back to the healer's tent was in my left pocket in one moment and my right pocket the next. I'm sure it was you who took it and put it back. I don't mind, and I can't blame you for forgetting which pocket to put it back into. I hope reading about elfroot wasn't too boring._

_I know I don't have to tell you not to take anything too important from anyone's pockets, so I won't bother writing something like that out. Gods know I've got a bad habit of taking everything in sight wherever my party travels._

_Come stand with me sometime on the ramparts, would you? It's nice to have company. Or perhaps instead you'd like to write me a note back. We could write to each other instead of talk. Sometimes getting your words organized on a page is easier than talking, I know. So feel free to put a note in my coat when I'm not looking (or when I am, I suppose). Or don't. It's up to you._

_You do so much for so many people, Cole. You try so hard. Just don't forget it's okay if you need a little help sometimes, too._

The note is unsigned. Cole looks up, toward the courtyard, eyes trying to find Lavellan, but she and her assassin trainer have melted into the shadows somewhere, faded like good spirits do. He thinks she's clever. He thinks she's someone he might be friends with for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole's a hard character to write. I'm not sure Bioware knew what they were doing with him either, though.


	4. Bad Diplomacy

  _The Nightingale's spies intercept both letters to and from Skyhold in order to review their contents. The following letter is a copy of a brief letter sent out of Skyhold by an Orlesian noble among a trio of visiting diplomats._

 The Inquisitor's understanding of the game is thorough for an outsider. No one knows why she attended the Conclave, but it would be no shock to me if she was revealed to have been an ambassador or spy. She phrases her words skillfully, delicately, politely, yet behind each calm and collected comment is something deadly. With the ambassador the Inquisition retains, it is no wonder she speaks this way. I am certain the Lady Montilyet has coached her in a manner of ways, further sharpening her talents. She is an exceptionally intelligent member of her race, picking up on things as quickly as some of the humans around her do. It is her one redeeming quality, and lessens the shock one might feel after hearing that she is rumored to have gained the approval of the Grand Duchess Florianne (before she was killed during the assassination of Empress Celene, of course). Though I cannot believe Grand Duchess Florianne deigned to _touch_ such a creature, let alone dance with one! It is impossible to forget that this "Herald" is an elf! She's no alienage elf, bare-faced or tattooed like a commoner, she is Dalish— she wears, with a twisted pride, a barbaric face tattoo that's spread across her face and snakes all the way from her forehead to her chin. And those ears are _horrendous_. Large and wide, set like cat ears or bat wings. Elvish ears that are short can be mostly hidden by the proper hairstyle, but the Inquisitor doesn't bother with any such thing. It's not for lack of servants, or lack of her own skill— the braids she keeps her hair in are intricate and held tightly up on the back of her head, exposing her ears and dreadful tattoos all the time. She's such an ugly little thing. Even with the intelligence the Maker has graced her with, if it weren't for that mark on her hand, no one would take her seriously.

 I will send more word on her policies the next time I am _graced_ with "Her Worship's" presence. It has only been a polite dinner so far, as she has just returned from the Hissing Wastes. All this posturing for an elf makes me sick.

 

_A note attached by the Spymaster:_

The code was ridiculously easy to crack. Orlais is losing its touch, or this diplomat is unbelievably stupid. I'm sure Lavellan has already picked up on this one's hatred of elves just from the way they've interacted. She notices more than she lets on. Tell her the diplomat is not to be trusted anyway. 

And take a deep breath, Josie. We all know you think Her Worship's ears are the Maker's gift to Thedas.


	5. In Brevity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit more into my inquisitor’s personal background. If you’re not feeling that, just read the first section from her parents, which is generic enough. 
> 
> If you read the whole thing, here’s some clarity on my oc’s: 
> 
> Edvhen’suhlan Lavellan is Inquisitor Aviv Lavellan’s wife, a mage who’s First to the Keeper (and in another universe, she becomes the inquisitor instead). She has two younger brothers, young teens who are twins, Win’hal and Wil’hendis. 
> 
> Aviv thinks that Ed dies when Clan Lavellan is wiped out during the Save Clan Lavellan mission and falls in love with Josie over the course of the rest of DAI and thinks about marrying her before and during the events of Trespasser.
> 
> Cillian Lavellan is older than Aviv and Ed and he’s Aviv’s cousin. He was meant to be First but ended up being Second because of Ed’s sheer talent, and he doesn’t hold any resentment or jealousy because he’s a real sweetie. (He’s the inquisitor in another universe).

_Clan Lavellan requested that the Inquisition release their captive clan member. After hearing that Lavellan was no longer a prisoner, but before they requested aid, they sent word saying that they were happy to hear of Lavellan’s safety._

_These are some brief letters that were attached to that missive._

 

* * *

 

We’re celebrating your survival. Mala suledin nadas. We know this path you’ve chosen will be full of terrors, but find strength in our love. We are with you. Come home soon. Mythal ma ghilana, da’len.

This is brief because of the Keeper’s urgency to send word to you and your allies after the misunderstanding about your capture. I do not blame her. More to follow.

With love,

Mother and Father

 

* * *

 

Ed says you survived that explosion at the Conclave and now you’ve got a cool power that you’re using to fight demons. Are you a mage now? Ed says that you’re not, but it’s your power, so I figured you’d know better than her. What happened? Can you tell us?

We’re praying. We’re all praying.

Write soon.

Wil’hendis

 

* * *

 

Hi, sister-in-law. Ed said you need all the love you can get right now. I hope you’re safe. I hope the shems don’t hurt you. Bring us some cool stuff when you come home. Ed says she doesn’t know when you’re coming back, and I can tell she’s upset. And Wil and I miss you, too. Don’t do anything stupid, alright?

Write back quick.

Win’hal

 

* * *

 

Ma vhenan,

I miss you so much. I have all the words in the world to pour onto this page but I have none of the world’s time. Keeper Deshanna wants to write back to the Inquisition as soon as possible, and I don’t blame her. But it leaves me less time to give you the tongue lashing you deserve for making me think for even a second that you had died. When we got word of what happened at the Conclave, I thought you were dead. I couldn’t breathe. Sometimes I still can’t, thinking of you out there fighting Fade demons without me. I haven’t stopped praying since you left.

I should’ve come with you to the Conclave. I should’ve resigned as First and ran to you as soon as we heard you were alive. I might yet do it. Cillian can be First again instead and I’ll be Second, or nothing.

I keep thinking that I see you here, out of the corner of my eye. I turn and you’re not there and it’s like my heart is breaking in half.

I‘ll try to find a way to come to you. I swear I’ll try. Keep fighting in the meantime. Stay safe. I mean it.

Mythal y Ghilan’ain ma ghilana, vhenan.

Edvhen’suhlan

 

* * *

 

Cousin,

When we received word that you lived, Ed and I prepared to ride for Haven immediately to help you. I thought Ed was going to burn the forest down when the Keeper kept us from leaving. She was trembling so much that I thought she was going to shake out of her skin.

We’re trying to convince Keeper Deshanna to send one of us to you for aid, to protect you. I know you don’t need protecting, but we should be there. I know we should. Ed kept saying, while we thought the worst, that she should have pushed to go to the Conclave with you, and I felt the same way. I think she blamed me, a little, for not going, since I’m not First. It would’ve been easier for me to convince Deshanna to let me go since I’m Second. I should’ve. Even though I might’ve died at the Conclave, I should’ve been there to help you. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this mess. Though you’d have likely been the one saving me. You’re the most level headed of us, you always have been.

Deshanna is coming to retrieve my letter. Stay safe. Wait for us.

Mythal ma ghilana.

Cillian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the elvish, translated: 
> 
> (this is all according to the da wiki)
> 
> Mala suledin nadas — Now you must endure  
> Mythal ma ghilana, da’len — Mythal guides you, child  
> Mythal y Ghilan’ain ma ghilana, vhenan — Mythal and Ghilan’ain guide you, my heart / my love


End file.
